intruders was painfully present in all our
encounters with Native Americans. Feeling
like an intruder is, of course, something that
journalists often experience in the course of
their work. In the past we have met with re
sistance, hostility, and even aggression, but
those only increased our determination to
seek the truth. The Indians, however, were
always gentle, even friendly. But under
neath we sensed resignation and sadness.
That day, just before our visit to the pueb
lo, in the middle of a conversation that had
been in progress for hours and seemed to me
to be peaceful and friendly, Connie Cerno,
"mother of the Acoma people," suddenly
became visibly irritated and began to speak
to her daughter in the Keresan language.
Only after many queries did I finally learn
that Connie had become apprehensive that
she had told me too much.
I was astonished by her reaction, because
she had only told me the plain story of her
life, and I had been particularly careful not
to be too pressing. Her granddaughter,
Shyatesa White Dove, had said earlier that
during the sacred and secret religious rituals
of the Acoma, people fly over the village in
helicopters. They sit in the open doors
and take pictures with cameras that have ex
tremely long lenses. "They don't even try to
hide," Shyatesa said.
In order to reassure Connie, I promised
DiscoveringAmerica